


Bad Habit

by OnionRelish



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Purple Prose, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, i projected HARD onto owen for this one, i've never written a fic from owen's perspective before so please be kind to me ahahaha, parts of this i rewrote from my response to a rp thanks cady, this half religious trauma & internalized homophobia and half kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnionRelish/pseuds/OnionRelish
Summary: To one Agent Owen Carvour, Curt Mega was nothing more than a bad habit. An itch to be scratched, a need fulfilled on occasion. Nothing less, and nothing more. Or so he thought.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 22
Kudos: 41





	Bad Habit

**Author's Note:**

> this whole fic (including the title) is inspired by Ben Platt's "Bad Habit" which i listened to on repeat, along with lots of Hozier, to write this

Curt Mega was a bad habit. That’s all. At least that’s what Owen told himself as he lay beside the other man in a cheap hotel bed, the scent of cheap cologne and expensive whiskey lingering on his skin. Curt’s breathing was deep, so he assumed that he was asleep. That was something remarkable he admired about his colleague, his ability to effortlessly fall asleep at a moment’s notice. But that’s all they were, colleagues. Colleagues who knew each other intimately, perhaps, but they were work partners and nothing more as far as Owen was concerned. Work partners who had a little fun together, who sometimes made out in the secrecy of an alleyway, but who never spent the whole night together. Partners who left each other with an empty bed to wake up to, who resumed work as normal when they were next stationed together. 

There was an unspoken bond that never seemed to mature into anything other than a mutual respect for one another. It couldn’t, not in their line of work. Owen wasn’t afraid of relationships necessarily, but committing himself to another agent, well, it was unfeasible. Far too risky, dangerous, all of it. It could jeopardize foreign relations for one, it could certainly cost both of them their jobs and livelihoods if they were caught, and most importantly Owen felt… Wrong. Corrupt, sinful, tainted, stained by the scarlet of his folly. His mother’s words echoed through his mind each time his lips brushed against Curt’s:  _ If with a man you choose to lie, you’ll go straight to Hell when you die.  _ The rhyme was silly, but harrowing. Owen rolled over onto his side, his back facing the blissfully slumbering Curt. He heard the man sigh in his sleep, and was overcome with a sense of envy. Curt had always seemed so sure of himself, so content with his sexuality in a way Owen couldn’t be. He seemed to live in an obliviously peaceful state, happily sauntering through life without a care in the world. Curt just seemed so… fulfilled. So at ease, so ready to live and love with his heart brandished on his sleeve, open to anyone who would listen. Owen longed to live like that, but the deep sense of doubt that lingered in his mind prevented him from doing so. All the teachings like stained glass chapels in his mind, adorned to look beautiful and promising, but empty and cold and barren on the inside. But there was no denying that Curt Mega was intoxicating. A poison that felt so good but would eventually, at least in Owen’s mind, lead to his downfall. Sickeningly sweet to the taste, like raw honey, golden and dripping and oh so alluring. The product of his hubris, the sun to his Icarus. Always chasing after that warmth, feeling the burning heat on his skin that would result in a painful plummet into the heart of the sea. Curt was the arrow to his Achilles heel, the damning glance from Orpheus to Eurydice. And as much as Owen wanted to stop whatever relationship they had, he found himself being continuously drawn back to Curt like a moth to a lamp, blinded by the light, flying towards the source he so desperately craved that would end in his brilliant demise, a glorious death of passion and color and strength, the magnificence of a supernova. And part of Owen wanted to end like this. Not to fizzle out in irrelevance, but to leave a legacy. And even if that legacy was negative, he would be immortalized nonetheless. 

Owen thought back to the first time he had kissed Curt. It was an impulse out of his anger, a searing red-hot moment of fervor that tasted of cinnamon and the sharp tanginess of blood oranges. Curt had been shocked, but quickly found his place against Owen’s lips, not objecting in the slightest. He remembered the softness of Curt’s hair, the sweat beginning to glisten across his skin, juxtaposed with the intensity of their passion. It burned in Owen’s chest and filled him with a consuming desire for Curt ever since, deep crimson and violet zeal, the roaring heat of a fire in the dead of winter. 

It melted into something sweeter, something slower. It was tender, pale rose petals fluttering in the spring breeze, lilac soft and smooth as buttercream. It was cinematic, like something from one of those old black and white movies. He could nearly imagine a syrupy crescendo of flutes and piano in the background, music swelling behind them with warm, faint hues of grandeur. It was warm and comfortable, like a glimpse of oneself in the fogged mirror after a shower. And despite everything in Owen that screamed to stop, he felt so complete in that moment, like all of his life had been leading up to this point. It was the soft tawny fur of a fawn lying in the grass, the wind gently blowing through the dangling branches of an aged willow tree. It was cold, calloused hands against warm cheeks, a decision that would simultaneously change everything and nothing.

Then there were sloppy, drunken kisses. Clumsy lips that tasted of liquor and cigarettes, hands fumbling to unbutton shirts. It was the amber golden glow of whiskey and the gray haze of smoke, flecks of ash falling against pale skin. It was the city lights at night, orange and dull against the light of the moon, when the world looks fuzzy and muddled. It was kissing like their lives depended on it, tipsy giggles, blundering hands trailing across jawlines. It was laughter a little too loud, bodies a little too close, promises that would never be kept, secrets shared that would be forgotten by morning. It was acting without thinking, dealing with the consequences later. Next-day hangovers, aching joints, bruises that neither remembered how they had gotten, the half-remembered fragments of the night before lingering in their minds like mist over a lake, soon to dissipate in the sunlight. 

Owen sat up in the bed, the cheap mattress creaking slightly. He moved to get up, to go back to his own room like normal, when he felt a hand on his own. 

“Owen?” Curt asked sleepily, “Stay. Please?” Owen froze, debating whether or not to object. He had to get up early the next day to catch his flight back home, and spending the night might give Curt the wrong idea about what they were. He couldn’t get too attached, as spies often crossed paths for the last time without either of them knowing that they’d never see each other again. So part of Owen wanted to make the most of their dwindling time together. If he truly wasn’t ever going to see Curt again, then why not make these last few moments count? Owen lay back down, facing the other man and stroking his cheek with his thumb. Curt was so unbelievably pretty to look at, his kind hazel eyes framed by long, dark lashes, his charming smile, the faint hints of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Owen could find little constellations on Curt’s face, content to gaze at him for hours. He inhaled deeply, and pulled Curt into a kiss. It was subdued and gentle with the faintest undertones of raspberry red melancholy. It was sour-sweet as the filling of a cherry pie, the slow reverberations of acoustic guitar with muffled raindrops pattering against the concrete outside. Curt looked positively angelic in the darkness, the thin white sheets clinging to his body like holy robes. The bed was their temple, and Owen poured out his offering into the divine altar of Curt’s lips. Kissing Curt was his salvation, the crimson guilt that stained his heart washed white as snow. As he pulled away, Curt rested his head on Owen’s chest, and fell asleep with the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips. And there they slept until the sun rose in the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> i say this practically at the end of every fic but i'll say it again (bap bap bap): validation from strangers on the internet means the world to me, so please comment & leave kudos if you can!! also i am 100% open to constructive criticism if you would like to give me some pointers (-:


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